


Che ben atmosfera, che bellisima neve

by diadema



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: 2018 Winter Holiday Gift Exchange, Fluff, Inspired by Music, Light Angst, Multi, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-09-26 23:01:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17150711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diadema/pseuds/diadema
Summary: "And see you in London, or maybe in ParisBerlin will be waiting, and so will be RomeAnd maybe I'll see you again when it's snowing in VeniceAnd I will be on my way home"With Illya away in Moscow, Solo takes Gaby on holiday. :)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SydneyMo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SydneyMo/gifts).



> Merry Christmas, Miss SydneyMo! You are a true light in this fandom, and I am very grateful for your warm positivity and kindness. I'll be updating this as soon as I am able, but I do hope you enjoy this beginning chapter in the meantime.
> 
> Beta thanks to Somedeepmystery. Love you, lady! Thanks for all your help. <3
> 
> This story is inspired by Elizaveta's ["Snow in Venice"](https://genius.com/Elizaveta-snow-in-venice-lyrics) \- a gorgeous song for all of your Gallya feels - in response to the prompt: A bit of winter fun and the warming up involved afterward. Enjoy! Comments always appreciated. :)
> 
> [Re-uploaded after technical difficulties - sorry!]

Solo takes a pretty sip of his hot chocolate before offering her a small, calculated smile. He is all strained benevolence as he sets his cup down in front of her, an eyebrow raised in invitation. “You’re _sure_ you don’t want to try some?”

Gaby’s eyes drift slowly to the beverage: the whipped cream, artfully sculpted and topped with chocolate shavings, the lazy plumes of steam dancing above it, and below,  _cioccolata calda,_ the prized drink of the Venetians.

Casanova himself had apparently sworn by it for breakfast, and UNCLE’s very own could do no less. All the way to the esteemed Caffe Florian, Solo had extolled the virtues, the guilt-free  _vice_ of the delicacy that awaited them. He had waxed poetic about its richness, the ganache-like consistency, the curated sweetness of it which had no equal, how it wore its own unrepentant indulgence like a fashionable badge of honor.

Even Italy’s oldest coffee house, with its myriad of frescoes and red velvet banquettes, was given all the loving attention of a museum docent. Solo had rattled off the names of such literary greats as Goethe and Proust and Byron who had frequented the cafe, and when he had finally paused to draw breath, Gaby had numbly placed her order for black coffee.

“Is this—is this  _spite?”_ he had sputtered until he’d looked into her eyes and softened. He draped his arm around her shoulders and guided her towards a marble table at the window: so Gaby could enjoy the view and so the other patrons could enjoy  _him._

“Gaby,” he prompts again, nudging her with the point of a designer shoe. She startles from her reverie and shakes her head, fingers curling even tighter around the rapidly-cooling porcelain of her own neglected drink. Solo masks his sigh behind another sip as her eyes trail listlessly back to the window.

 _La Serenissima_ has lived up to its reputation and then some. The tourists have gone home leaving a certain peacefulness in their wake.  _This,_ Solo had stressed to her, is the Venice of the locals. They stroll unhurried down the streets, bundled in furs and calling out their greetings to neighbors and strangers alike.

With the winter comes a stillness. Between the mist shrouding the canals and the darkness descending ever-gentle on abbreviated days, the city is cloaked in a hushed sort of reverence. There is, indeed, serenity here, but Gaby can find no solace in it. Because Illya, in his own, quiet way would revel in it, and therefore, Gaby cannot. Not when he had been called away to Moscow so unexpectedly. So ominously.

Three weeks of radio silence followed with Gaby throwing herself into any project that came her way (whether it was hers to work on or not). Solo, on the other hand, would disappear for long stretches at a time, showing up at increasingly odd hours to join her in the garage or at the office. Sometimes he'd bring his own paperwork with him. He would pull up a chair, and they'd share her desk in silence. Other times, he'd pluck the wrench and folder from her hands without preamble and tell her to go home. 

Waverly had  _insisted_ that she and Solo take some time off not too long after. Rest, he’d told them, relax, blow off steam.  _Responsibly,_ of course, he amended with a pointed look at Solo. The Englishman’s gaze had settled on her next, kind but firm, as he dismissed them. “I don’t want to see either of you back at headquarters for anything short of the world ending.”

Solo had taken the directive in stride, making immediate plans for a holiday getaway in style.  _Plans_ that, to her horror, included her in them as well.

The American had appeared, unbidden and unwanted, at her apartment and ordered her to begin packing. When Gaby made no effort to do so, he had set upon the task himself, chattering inanely as he worked.

It wasn’t until he’d found her ring (tucked safely in the swathes of a patterned headscarf) that the trance had finally broken. He held the keepsake up to the light, the black pearl swinging like a pendulum at the end of the chain she wore it on. Gaby snatched it out of his hands, ignoring his smirk, and clutched it in her fist. The hidden transmitter trembled with its own tiny heartbeat as the blood drained from her extremities.

For all its intensity, her glare glanced harmlessly off the American. He merely  _tsked_ and returned to perusing her wardrobe, not even bothering to consult her on his selections. “You can pine and brood just as effectively in Venice as you can in London,” he said.

Gaby had elbowed him out of the way then and demanded he come back with coffee or not at all.

She boarded the plane within the hour: luggage-light and heart-heavy, searching for answers in the clouds as they left a tear-streaked London behind.

Eight days later, a lull in the morning fog reveals dream-like glimpses of St. Mark’s Square. She and Solo had spent the last two days exploring the district: the great Byzantine cathedral with its 40,000 square feet of mosaics, the acclaimed  _Teatro La Fenice_ opera house, the Bridge of Sighs…

She had enough of sightseeing after that.

Gaby’s gaze had skittered between the two buildings, the two  _prisons_ (housed inside a palace though one of them may be), bones straining under the weight of centuries’ worth of anguished last looks before Misfortune beckoned.

The memory of that moment gnaws at her now, but she manages to choke it down. She reels back, wide-eyed, as a very different type of ache begins to steal her breath away.

_Snow._

Glittering flakes pirouette in and out of the mist, a fine veil speckled with icy stars. It is enchanting, wistful and wonderful, and as Gaby stares out at it, an impulse overtakes her.

“I’m going to call him,” she announces, already pushing to her feet.

Distantly, she hears Solo’s words taper off—had he been  _speaking?—_ as he slowly lowers his biscotti.  He opens his mouth: to discourage her, perhaps, to lecture her on all the ways it was a bad idea not only for her sake but for  _his._

But then the American shakes his head and rises to help her into her coat. “There’s a payphone not too far from here,” he says.

Gaby nods. She knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

Gaby’s fingers are halfway to frozen by the time she slots the last coin in and begins to punch in the numbers, familiar and forbidden at once. She is given no time for nerves or second-guessing when Illya picks up midway through the first ring.

_ “Da.” _ A clipped growl. A harsh pant of breath. The strain of it, the banked fury behind that one syllable is enough to give her pause. It takes Gaby a moment to collect herself and even longer to translate his next words.

_ “What is it?” _ he barks.  _ “Speak!” _

She jumps at the loud crash that follows next. Gaby bobbles the phone, cursing vociferously in German until she restores the receiver to her ear. An eerie silence follows. If it weren’t for the ragged staccato of Illya’s breathing, she might have believed he’d hung up.

At last she hears the whisper, the reverence laced with disbelief as he says her name.  _ “Gaby?” _

“Illya,” she says, and there’s something like mercy in the way he exhales then, as if he’d been holding his breath the way she has.

_ “Forgive me.”  _ He hesitates.  _ “I thought you were someone else.” _

She knows she shouldn’t ask, that he can’t answer, but she does it anyway. “Is everything—”

_ “Is fine,”  _ he assures her.  _ “Why—why have you called?” _

Her cheeks are already rosy from the cold, but now the embarrassment begins to color them as well. Gaby shifts her weight on her feet. Why  _ had _ she called him?  Distracted him from whatever assignment he was working. To tell him it was  _ snowing? _ Ridiculous, she scoffs.

She grasps onto the first safe answer she can think of. “I’m in Venice,” she says, praying that her voice won’t betray her. “With Solo.”

_ “For mission?” _

“Worse.” She sighs. “We’re on holiday.”

There’s a quiet huff of laughter on the other end of the line, and Gaby can start to breathe easy again. It is good to hear him like this. 

_ “You are well then?” _

A sad, little smile touches the corners of her lips. Of course that would be his concern. Her throat feels tight, but she focuses on keeping her tone as airy as possible. “I suppose you’ll be asking me about the weather next. It’s snowing. Just so you know.”

She waits for his hum before continuing. “I assume it’s the same where you are?”

_ “It  _ is _ Moscow,” _ he rumbles. Good-natured, if more than a little tired.  _ “But you did not answer my question. How are you, Gaby?” _

“As well as you are, I can hope.” Fear sluices down her spine, and the break in her voice is painfully audible.  _ “Please _ tell me you’re doing all right.”

A trace of the gallows peeks through in his answer.  _ “It is Moscow.” _ Before she can say anything else, Illya is already reassuring her, ever-ready to give comfort.  _ “Do not worry. I am fine. I have been able to visit my mother. There is the snow—” _

“Right now?”

_ “Now?” _ She can almost see his slight frown, the crease between his brows as he humors her. She hears the footsteps, the rustle of curtains as he goes to check.  _ “Yes, it is still snowing.” _

“Good,” she breathes.

Gaby doesn’t know why it should matter. Only that it does. It makes her feel closer to him somehow. The same sky. The same snow. And, if she closes her eyes, she can almost pretend that he is right there with her. 

“I miss you,” she whispers. The confession falls from her lips without thought. A broken, heavy sigh greets her, and she braces herself for the oncoming admonishment. The rejection.

_ “Gaby, I—” _

“Need to keep the line clear,” she supplies. “I understand.”

_ “That is—” _

“It’s fine,” she says, waving him off. “It’s fine. You’re expecting a call and… and I was out of change anyway.”

Gaby bites her lip as she considers just one more bad decision. “Illya?”

His voice is strange. Strangled almost.  _ “Yes?” _

“Come back soon.”

She hangs up before he can say anything else.

 

* * *

 

When Gaby retraces her steps to the warmth and light of  _ Caffe Florian,  _ she is startled (if somewhat unsurprised) to find Waverly closing up his umbrella outside. 

“Ah, Miss Teller. Excellent,” he says, moving to open the door for her. He follows her in, voice lowered mock-conspiratorially. “I’ve been looking all over for the two of you. Called the hotel, checked out all the obvious haunts. Even a few of the more… discreet ones as well. I was just about ready to give up when the darndest thing happened.”

And then, because she is expected to and because Solo’s head is tilted up at them in undisguised curiosity, she asks the question. “What happened, sir?”

Her employer raises his voice and points at the American.  _ “‘I found the scoundrel in a cafe, drinking hot chocolate and flirting with the waitress!’” _

Waverly grins at his own joke, smiles winsomely at the stares they’ve attracted. “Quoting a bit of Casanova, you see,” he explains. “Apparently he was a regular here, did you know? He swore by—”

“Hot chocolate for breakfast,” she adds wearily. Gaby nods at Solo’s now-empty cup. “They even have a drink named after him.”

The Englishman’s gaze flicks from the neatly-arraigned porcelain to her partner’s deliberately innocent expression. “Bit on the nose, isn’t it?”

Solo shrugs, completely unperturbed. “Just embracing the locals, sir.” He grins. “Their customs, too, of course.”

“Cheeky blighter,” Waverly huffs. 

Before the men can continue their banter, Gaby barrels forward, blunt and graceless, but completely unrepentant for it. “Why are you here, sir?”

Her boss looks only mildly affronted at her rudeness. “Officially, Miss Teller, I came by to deliver a message.”

“And unofficially?”

The corners of his eyes crinkle ever so slightly. “Unofficially, I’m here to catch a show.  _ The Rake’s Progress.  _ Last time I was in Venice—back in ‘51, I believe—it was for its world premiere. Stravinsky himself conducted.”

Gaby’s heart lurches unsteadily at the composer’s name. Waverly doesn’t seem to notice as he continues. “It’s certainly no  _ Firebird, _ but for all of its flaws, I believe it possesses a particular, tragic charm not unlike—”

_ “Persephone,” _ she adds, almost absently. Waverly and Solo blink at her in surprise. The Brit is the first to recover. He nods slowly at her.

“Y-yes. That’s exactly right.”

Before either man can press her for details, she powers forward, dragging them back to business. “You said you had a message for us. Is the world ending then?”

Waverly holds her gaze a moment before he finally responds. “Not this time, Miss Teller.”

“Then why—”

“I think you’ll find that the stakes are much more personal.” He smiles at them, already beginning to take his leave. “Back in London tomorrow,” he calls. “I’ll make the arrangements.”

Gaby stares out after him, equal parts irritated and forlorn, when Solo draws her back. He leans back in his seat and studies her.  _ “Persephone,  _ huh?”

His brow furrows as he adopts a contemplative air. Everything about it—the low hum, the steepled fingers, the slightly narrowed eyes—is maddeningly performative. “A French-language retelling of a Greek myth as interpreted by a Russian composer. Not exactly his magnum opus or even one of his better known works. Which begs the question…”

“Why should it?” she snaps. “You already know the answer.”

If he didn’t before, he does now. “Peril,” he says. Thoughtful. He cocks his head to the side, and this time, the curiosity is genuine. “But why call it tragic? What I recall, Persephone went down to the Underworld of her own accord. Compassion for the lost souls or something like that.”

Gaby glares daggers at him. “And what good does it do? To be so committed, so blindly,  _ stupidly _ loyal to her cause?” She shakes her head as the pain and anger storm through her. A figure, different but no less fair materializes in her mind’s eye. “It doesn’t  _ matter _ if she goes willingly. She still goes. To the dark and the cold and the, the, the suffering and—”

Solo lays a hand on her shoulder to still her. Gaby blinks back tears but allows this small moment of comfort. “Yes,  _ but,” _ he murmurs. “Persephone always comes back.”

He threads her arm through his and pulls her along, back out to the haunting quiet of  _ La Serenissima. _ “We have one more day in Venice, Gaby. Why don’t we make it count?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! :D


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your patience—I ended up doing a full rewrite on this chapter to get it to my satisfaction (infinite thanks to Somedeepmystery for her insights and gentle, supportive enthusiasm). On the bright side, though, there's now nearly 4 pages more story than there would have been otherwise. :)
> 
> In other exciting news, this update puts me over the 200,000 word mark for our fandom! :D Glad to be here. Thanks for the love! Hope you all enjoy this final installment. Comments, as always, are infinitely appreciated. <3

 

Gaby’s eyes narrow immediately at the American as they come up on Campo San Polo—Venice’s second-largest public square. He had been suspiciously reticent about their plans for the day, and though it really was all the same to her, the more information he withheld, the less she trusted him.

She almost runs into him when he pulls up short. He inclines his head at the myriad of stalls that surround them. “Would you look at that, Gaby. A Christmas market. You have those in Germany, don’t you?”

She doesn’t need to answer. They both know where the _Christkindlmarkt_ originated. A pang of homesickness lurches in her stomach, but she ignores it. Her gaze has passed over bright lights and evergreen trees to catch on the main attraction before them: an oval rink that twinkles at her in invitation.

“Ice skating.” The realization flutters uneasily in her chest. Gaby turns to her partner, trying to read something, _anything_ in the curated blank slate of his expression. “You’re taking me ice skating.”

“Am I?” He feigns obliviousness as he searches the surrounding area. “What gave you that… _oh._ You mean right over there?”

Gaby can barely refrain from rolling her eyes as the man frowns. “I don’t know, Gaby. It looks pretty crowded. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather—”

“Solo,” she says, and there’s a distinct shift in her voice. “You’re taking. Me. Ice skating.”

He grins, delighted and more than a little smug,  as he offers her his hand. “If you insist.”

 

* * *

 

The first thing Gaby notices is that she is surrounded by couples.

All around her are dozy eyes and besotted smiles, faces tipped towards one another as they carve out their own private worlds on the ice. Pair after pair passes her by, laughing and chatting and holding hands, arms slung around necks and waists and shoulders with that careless, casual intimacy that sets her teeth on edge.

She is revolted by it.

She is desperate for it.

It hasn’t escaped Solo’s notice either. The American smiles gamely at her as one gloved hand seeks out her own. “Come on,” he coaxes when Gaby tries to draw back. “We’re partners, aren’t we?”

For a moment, she considers the prospect—gliding arm-in-arm with the man across the ice. It would be companionable. It would be comfortable. But Gaby Teller has always been her own woman.

She arches an eyebrow at him with all the delicate skepticism she can conjure. “Somehow, this doesn’t seem like quite your speed.” She hums then, motions to the scores of couples skating sedately around them. A grin ghosts at the corners of her mouth. “No, it doesn’t suit you at all, Solo. You’re _much more_ about the thrill of the chase.”

And with that, she takes off. Gaby hears a soft chuff of laughter behind her before the man begins his pursuit. They duck and weave in and out of the crowd, splitting up couples and otherwise disrupting the leisurely atmosphere.

She’d be lying if she said she didn’t enjoy it.

Some of the skaters shout curses at her, others encouragement as Gaby puts Solo through his paces. He has all the grace and skill she expects from him—smooth and fast and light on his feet—but it is her own unfiltered recklessness that gives her the edge on him. After all, agility means nothing if you aren’t willing to risk your neck to prove it.

More and more couples are beginning to skirt around the perimeter, out of interest, perhaps, or merely self-preservation. Either way, she and Solo have now taken center stage. Gaby smirks as she advances on Solo, dancing with and around him but always just out of reach.

When she begins to make her retreat, she does so while facing him, skating backwards with long, even strokes. The American holds her gaze as he gains on her, and Gaby begins counting silently in her head.

_Three._

She slows to let him close the distance.

_Two._

Her shoulder drops as she leans forward.

_One._

Gaby changes course on a dime, _barrels_ towards Solo at full-speed.

He dodges the collision on instinct. His arm reaches out to grab her a fraction of a second too late. Gaby sneaks a glance behind her as the momentum carries him into an impromptu pirouette. A laugh escapes her, bright and unexpected. It catches them both off-guard.

In the space of a heartbeat, Gaby can see the minute shift in her partner’s expression. A calculation. A conflict. A resolution. “You laugh now,” he claims, “but really, you should pity me. Not all of us have had the _privilege_ of your East German upbringing.”

She snorts indelicately at that. Her lips press into a thin line to keep from smiling. The American is the epitome of wounded indignation as he continues. “I didn’t have your ballet training, your totalitarian _regime_ to keep me in line.” He sighs. “It’s no wonder I’m at such a disadvantage.”

“Are you asking me to teach you, Solo?”

“Only if you could condescend to do so.”

And so it goes.

Gaby walks Solo through the five basic ballet positions—no small feat on the ice—and manages to maintain a (mostly) serious demeanor when he relies heavily on her for balance. She tuts as she critiques his form, adjusting his arms and nudging his feet to her satisfaction. She has him practice them a few times before coaching him through a _releve._ The _demi-plie_ is the easy part. It’s going onto the balls of his feet while wearing skates that nearly has him toppling.

How much of it is for her benefit, she can’t say for certain, but the American has never shied away from an audience. Solo tosses her a wink before demanding that she get on with it. Gaby huffs and has him extend his leg behind him.

 _“Arabesque,”_ she explains.

He raises an eyebrow at her, and she pretends to be affronted as she supports his leg with both hands and spins him slowly around. It is a parody of a music box that garners a smattering of applause and jeers.

When he is back on both feet, Solo takes a deep bow before skating away, gesturing his arm at her in a grand, sweeping gesture almost as if to…

_He can’t be serious._

“Come on, Miss First Soloist. Show us how it’s done.”

Before she can protest, the man rejoins the crowd, giving her an encouraging smile. He nods, and she takes a deep breath to compose herself. Her nerves are jangling now that the spotlight is entirely her own. There are no cues to guide her, no choreography to adhere to. Everything she does (or doesn’t do) is entirely up to her.

 _You’re the star of this show._ The memory echoes through her: another cover, another performance. Another moment of being thrown for a loop before standing her ground and meeting her destiny head-on.

Her mind flickers immediately to Illya. She wants to picture his disapproving frown from the first time he saw her dancing, the one that had sparked defiance and something _more_ in her. But all she sees instead is the tender look in his eyes as he promised her he’d be close.

She tucks his sincerity away and pretends that he really is out there, watching, silently cheering her on. She wants to make him proud.

And with that one, inexplicable thought, Gaby lifts her chin and begins her routine.

She warms up by performing the same steps she had taught Solo before going into some of the more advanced techniques. It is easy enough to lift her leg in an _attitude_ and pirouette, but she isn’t satisfied to end there. Gaby dips down into a _grand-plie_ and launches into a _saute_ , sticking the landing with only the faintest of wobbles. Next come a few quick and graceful _echappes_ —going _en pointe_ as best she can given her footwear—and starts to embellish them with extra flourishes. She throws in a handful of other steps: moves she hasn’t practiced in months yet knows she can still make look graceful. She finishes with her arms raised _en haute_ above her and a triumphant grin on her face.

But Gaby isn’t done yet.

The applause is ringing in her ears as she launches into a series of _fouettes_ , keeping her eyes fixed determinedly on her American partner as she spins on one foot, the other whipping around to keep her momentum going. Gaby reaches a breakneck speed but all too quickly loses her balance. Her supporting leg skids on the ice, and then she is falling.

The impact never comes. Before Gaby can register what’s happening, Solo is holding her against him, lifting her by the arms until she gets her feet back under her. Whatever he is about to say is lost to her laughter. Gaby collapses boneless into his chest, shaking with adrenaline and catharsis and _mirth._

She graces Solo with a smile—a _real_ smile—when she finally recovers. Her fingers wrap lightly around his wrist as they wind their way to the exit, the noise of the crowd fading to a buzz in her ears.

“I don’t know about you,” he drawls, as Gaby unlaces her skates, “but I’ve worked up quite an appetite.” He looks pointedly at the Christmas market all around them and smirks. “And I think I know just where to start.”

 

* * *

 

Gaby and Solo meander through the various stalls, sampling cheeses and chocolates and cured meats. They sip cider from paper cups and nibble on roast chestnuts as they dip in and out of the crowd. The _only_ thing she refuses to try is the fish.

In between bites of salted cod on toast, Solo passionately pleads his case. The seafood is at its sweetest this time of year, he claims, the water its most pristine. His enthusiasm is almost enough to tempt her. But then she meets the gaze of a glassy-eyed _something_ and promises to take him at his word.

She hurries him along until they reach a different stretch of booths and his focus is pulled by a selection of Murano glass. Gaby lets her fingers trail over miniature nativity scenes and jewelry made out of paper as she carries on without him.

An assortment of wooden clocks and puzzles catches her eye, calls to her like a lighthouse. Something about the cheery colors and the intricate, loving craftsmanship reminds her strongly of her life in Germany. That conflicting sense of longing pinches at her again. She shrugs it off. These aren’t the cuckoo clocks of her childhood, though Gaby can’t deny that there’s something comfortingly familiar about them nevertheless.

She is reaching for her wallet when a shadow falls over her, a deep voice murmuring in Italian. Gaby looks up: the masculine curve of a jaw, the glint of sunlight on golden hair, but it’s not him. Her hand stills on her purse before promptly falling away.

_“Signorina?”_

Gaby turns back to the shopkeeper, smiles tightly and shakes her head. “I’m sorry,” she says, already backing away. “I’m sorry.”

She dashes off towards safer territory.

Her hands are shaking by the time she pitches herself into the next stall. The vendor takes in her flustered state with little more than a raised brow. He sweeps his hand over his wares in silent invitation.

 _Masks._ Dozens of them. Gaby’s eyes drift over the rows laid on the surface before her, the selections all over the walls. The curious splendor of them is enough to make her pulse settle and her breathing slow.

“Getting ready for _Carnival,_ Gaby?”

“I don’t know how,” she says coolly when her partner rejoins her. “We’re leaving tomorrow, _remember?”_

“Well, there’s no harm in looking.”

She hums, flat, frowns when she hears him take a bite of something. “What is that?”

 _“Baci in gondola,”_ he tells her with an obvious smack of his lips. “Gondola kisses. Would you like one?” He leans in, conspiratorial. “Or would you prefer a taste of the real thing?”

Gaby plucks a sweet from the bag he offers her—two fluffy meringues joined together with dark chocolate. “You have a boat?”

“I’m sure it can be arranged.”

He waggles his eyebrows at her salaciously, provoking an exaggerated eye roll and a sigh. Solo grins at her as he draws her into his side, speaking lowly in her ear as he points out the different styles of masks, the archetypes that inspired them.

They sift through layers and layers of hand-painted leather and porcelain, the American narrating all the while. He starts pulling a few out for her to wear when Gaby makes her own choice. Solo shakes his head at the imposing theatricality of the _medico della peste—_ the stark white visage with the long, curved beak and the crystal discs over the eyes.

“Plague doctor,” he mutters. “Of course you’d like that one.”

Gaby looks down her now considerably elongated nose at him, an imperious edge to her voice. “Now, you,” she says, waving at the display.

“Do I get to choose my own?”

She glances over her shoulder at him in response, already on the hunt. “Do I get to choose my wardrobe on our next… _holiday?”_

“Do you want to?”

Her first selection thuds hollowly against his chest. “That’s beside the point. Now, try this on.”

Solo resigns himself to his fate, turning the mask over in his hands contemplatively. _“Servetta muta.”_ He hums, holds up the oval to his face. Blue eyes peer out at her but where there should be a mouth, there is only a smooth expanse of black velvet.

He lowers the mask, flips it to face her. “See that button right there? You bite on it to keep the mask in place. There’s no talking while wearing it.”

“Sounds like it’d be perfect for you.”

“Funny,” he says, flicking the mask away with more than a bit of distaste. He reaches for another one and lifts it up for her inspection. “How about this?”

A half-mask in a familiar style. She nods her approval as he secures it in place. “The _colombina,”_ he announces. “Worn by a very _different_ type of maidservant.”

She smiles blandly at him. “Is that what you are, Solo?”

“For you, Gaby? Anything.”

She laughs as she busies herself with finding the one she likes. Eventually, she settles on oversized magenta plumage and silver detailing. Solo raises the baton to his face, and she grins in response. _“Bellissima.”_

He scowls slightly at the feminine ending but soon diverts his attention back to the masks. “Two down, one to go.” He shrugs at her confused look. “Can’t leave Peril out of the fun, can we?”

Some of the humor ebbs out of her. “No,” she agrees quietly. “We can’t have that.”

“What do you think of this?” He holds it up, a fond expression on his face. _“Pantalone._ The _preferred_ choice for sad, old, and serious men. Look at those protruding brows, the narrowed eyes—both hallmarks of intelligence, I can assure you. It just screams Soviet propriety.”

“This one,” she murmurs, as if she hadn’t heard. Gaby plucks the half-mask from its hiding place: simple white with a subtle pattern in gold-leaf. She runs her fingers softly over the point of its nose.

He doesn’t tease her like she expects. He looks it over then back at her and shrugs.“Really brings out his eyes.”

“Wait,” Gaby says when Solo begins to reach for his wallet. “Let me.”

To his credit, the man doesn’t protest as she pays for the masks, but he does insist on carrying the bag for her. He holds her gaze just a beat too long. “Thank you very much.”

 

* * *

 

Gaby leans into Solo as they amble arm-in-arm down a quiet side street. Gratitude, tinged bittersweet, washes over her for his kind-hearted regard for her throughout their entire trip. This _trip_ that she hadn’t even wanted to take in the first place. She presses her cheek against his sleeve, lets her eyes close for a moment. “Thank you.”

Her words hang in the stillness, nestling into the companionable silence. Solo covers her hand with his own and nods. When her head begins to lull soon after, he nudges her with his elbow. “Come on, Teller. No dozing before the grand finale.”

He entrusts the masks to her care and leaves her with the cryptic instruction to _wait here._ She wraps her coat tighter around herself as she watches him leave. There’s a damp chill in the air, more pronounced near the canals. The last, lingering tendrils of the mist drift dreamlike above the water as the sun begins to set.

It envelops her world in a sheer, ephemeral blanket, muffling the sounds around her and inviting her to rest. But somewhere in the haze, Gaby registers the distinct _tapping_ of dress shoes approaching.

She looks up just in time to see Solo emerging from the fog. Her gaze catches on the straw hat he now sports, expression changing from quizzical to incredulous as she puts the pieces together.

“Borrowed it from a gondolier,” he says. “Or bribed it from him, rather.” He shrugs, untroubled by the semantics. A roguish grin crosses his face. “Don’t worry, Gaby. I got us the boat too.”

He bends to retrieve their purchases once more, a mischievous gleam in his eyes as straightens. “The offer still stands for that kiss, you know.”

Solo chuckles as she hauls him exasperatedly along.

 

* * *

 

It’s nothing short of astonishing to find the Grand Canal empty. The atmosphere seems to hum with it: this magic, charged potential, this mysterious grace. Gaby wonders idly if there is room for just one more blessing on a near-perfect day—just one more miracle—or if she’s already taken more than her fair share.

For the first time since arriving in Venice, Gaby feels… if not at peace, then at least at _ease._ She settles back further into her seat, watching as the lamplight dances in the ripples of the water as Solo steers them along.

“Aren’t you going to serenade me?” she asks. It’s meant as a tease, but she knows that the American is not one to shy from a challenge. By the look in his eyes, the subtle shift in his posture, she knows that she’s won. She bites down on her cheek to keep from gloating about it.

“As the lady wishes,” he demurs. All is quiet save for the muted _swish_ of the oar, and then he is singing. Solo’s voice is soothing, a sonorous baritone that echoes off the buildings around them as their gondola glides serenely past. She doesn’t understand the language, but the words are delivered with such conviction that Gaby isn’t sure whether he’s expecting her to laugh or to close her eyes to it.

In the end, she does neither.

It might have been a trick of the light. Coincidence. Or something stronger. But a flash of movement through the mist catches her attention. Rialto Bridge is a shadow of memory behind them, and _that man_ is a ghost.

Her heart stutters in her chest, an engine that won’t turn over properly. She stands, mouth open, as she confirms that that truly is Illya Kuryakin in all his fairy tale glory—backlit by the fading embers of the golden sky as he strides determinedly towards them. His long legs eat up the path like a runway, and she knows that soon, there won’t be anywhere else to go.

“Turn around,” she hisses, swatting at Solo to get his attention. He blinks as he snaps out his trance, the last notes of music still shimmering in the air. A frown crosses his face to see her standing in front of him.

“What—”

“I said… _turn around.”_

When he doesn’t immediately comply, Gaby lunges towards him impatiently, tries to wrest the oar from his control. Her foot slips when he rears back in surprise, momentum pitching her into the dark, frigid embrace of the water.

Her name sounds in unison around her just before she goes under. The biting chill causes her limbs to seize up, her teeth to chatter as she breaches the surface. Gaby gasps. Her body feels curiously, weightlessly numb as she wills her stunned mind into action. Movement and sound fall sluggishly out of alignment. She hears a splash, distant and disembodied, though her own flailing has stilled.

She is sinking then, again—or had she never stopped?—bobbing back under without concept of time or space. Strong arms encircle her, pull her against a solid chest as she is borne uselessly away. Solo’s face hovers above her before he is helping her into the boat.

But if he is _there_ then that means…

_Illya._

Her head swivels sharply to take in her rescuer. She sees the flicker of hesitation on that beautiful, familiar face as the American offers his hand to him next. His jaw sets in a grim line as he accepts… then _very calmly_ pulls the other  man overboard.

Illya swings his body neatly into the gondola and just stares at her. One moment, two—eyes darting over her face with near-feverish intensity. And then his palms are contouring her cheeks and his lips are on hers.

“Gaby,” he pants when they finally part. “I—you’re trembling.”

He runs his hands up and down her arms as she shivers: the cold, the relief, that unspoken something between them. A small, giddy grin curls at the corners of her mouth. “That’s because I _care.”_

Illya’s grip tightens on her as he pulls her back to him. His face is an inch from hers when the gondola rocks suddenly.

“Was that. _Strictly necessary._ Peril.” Solo shakes the droplets from his fingers as he rejoins them. Illya meets his glare with a shrug, still holding Gaby close.

“Is your fault she fell over.”

“I think she did that to herself,” he snipes, but there’s play in him as well. He smirks knowingly at them. “Though I hardly think she’s complaining about it. Better than the meringues, Gaby?”

She huffs out a quiet laugh, smooths the confusion from Illya’s brow with a gentle sweep of her hand. She traces the scar by his eye as she answers. “Much better.”

 

* * *

 

The gondola is still bumping against the dock when Illya scoops her into his arms and deposits her on dry land. She catches sight of a suitcase lying on its side, a discarded cap, an abandoned coat. He must have shed them before jumping in after her.

He immediately begins to bundle her in both, _tsking_ at how outsized they are for her small frame. Not that she minds. And, by that longing, possessive look in his eyes, neither does Illya. The fabric is still warm from him, the scent of his cologne dancing sweetly over her skin. “How,” she demands, more than a little desperate. _“How are you here?”_

“You told me to come home.”

There’s an odd fluttering in her chest, a dangerously fond thing curling up in her ribcage. It steals her breath away. “Tell me.”

He doesn’t look up as he belts the coat at her waist, tightening it as much as he can. “I concluded my mission,” he says. Evasive. There’s an edge to it she can’t quite place. The thought crosses her mind that he might have sabotaged it.

“And then?” she prompts. Gaby has to tilt her head back to see him under the brim of his hat.

“KGB dismissed me, so I decided to come _here_ instead of London.” He adjusts the cap for her, smiling softly, as he continues to fuss over her. His long fingers graze her cheeks before stroking over her hair. “I arrive and realize I have no idea which hotel you are staying in, so I prepare to go to each one. _That_ is when I hear Cowboy singing.”

He sighs. “It seemed like miracle that I find you both.”

The echo of her own earlier wish has her crashing into him. It knocks him back a step, and he tenses before relaxing against her, arms holding her just a shade too tight.

“I missed you too,” he rumbles, unprompted, and nudges the cap aside to kiss the shell of her ear. His breath ghosts over her before he straightens, extending an arm out to their partner. “You too, Cowboy,” he says before pulling the American into a brief hug.

Solo straightens the lines of his suit as he moves away, at a momentary loss for the gesture.“Why, thank you, Peril. I— _did you just put a tracker on me?”_

His fingers skim hurriedly under his lapels, his collar before managing to retrieve the device. He holds it up accusingly, though Illya appears to be nonplussed by it.

“You two get into too much trouble.”

 _“Yes, but_ ,” he begins, “you know she’s got her ring on, and I always keep one in my shoe.”

“You do?” Gaby asks. Even Illya seems surprised.

The American shrugs. “Call it superstition.”

“Going soft, Cowboy?”

“Just shut up and follow me.” He stoops to retrieve the Christmas market bag, which mercifully, has managed to stay dry. “You still need a hotel, don’t you? I’m sure Gaby would be _happy_ to put you up for the night.” He winks. “Just don’t stay up too late. We’ve got a long day of travel ahead of us.”

“We’re going back to London,” she explains when Illya turns his head to look at her. “Something’s come up.”

He takes her by the hand, picks up his suitcase with the other. A private smile tugs at his lips. “Time to go home.”

With the first, glittering flakes of snow beginning to fall once more, Gaby has a feeling she already might be.  

 

* * *

 

The three of them lounge on the floor of Solo’s hotel suite, wrapped up in blankets and basking in the glow and warmth of the fire. Gaby sets down her mulled wine and tucks herself further against the Russian. His arm is draped around her, thumb brushing idle circles in slow, rhythmic sweeps as Solo gives them the play-by-play of their adventures.

A smart rapping of knuckles against the door has Gaby lifting her head sleepily from Illya’s neck. He sits up, equally reluctant, and presses a kiss to the round of her shoulder before helping her to her feet.

“Good evening, chaps,” they hear Waverly say behind them. “Thought I’d stop by before my show ton—Mr. Kuryakin.”

The Englishman looks thrown for a moment before he nods to himself. “Yes, I had a sneaking suspicion I might find you here.” He turns to face the other agents. “I come bearing news. Or, at least, that _was_ my intention.”

Gaby frowns. “What were you going to tell us?”

“Only that your presence in London tomorrow is no longer required.” He stares pointedly at Illya. “Turns out that the extraction mission I had so _meticulously_ planned has been OBE.”

So _that_ is what Waverly had meant by saying the stakes were personal. A sudden rush of affection swells through her. Her throat is too tight to speak, but she hopes that he can read the gratitude and sincerity (perhaps even between them) in her expression.

“Welcome back, Kuryakin,” he adds.

“Thank you, sir.” His gaze flicks over to Gaby and then back to their superior. “Is good to be back.”

Solo takes that opportunity to step forward. “So…” he drawls. “Does that mean we’re still on vacation then?”

“You are all three free to stay here longer if you so choose. I think our Russian friend, in particular, could certainly benefit from it.

Illya hums, regarding Gaby once more. “I have heard many great things so far from Solo. Where would _you_ suggest I begin?”

She scrolls through her memories: the _Libreria Acqua Alta_ with its hundreds and hundreds of books and magazines shelved haphazardly in rowboats and gondolas and even a bathtub or two to protect them from the high tide. The basilica. The ice rink. The opera house. All of the public museums and churches. The private treasures stumbled upon in their wanderings.

Her lips quirk into a smile as she catches the other men’s eyes. “I know where we can get the best hot chocolate in all of Venice.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Totally unrelated to my story, but [too cool](https://atanau.tumblr.com/post/181836329655/mission-venice) not to share (thank you, Sdm for sharing it with me). :D Thank you all for reading!


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